Tag: #creativewriting

Mr and Mrs C. had been married for such a long time that now they had started to reverse-count the time, until death would actually do them apart.
The connection between them had always been powerful, but it reached its peak in the exact moment when, walking down the 4th route, they had both seen it.

They stared at it incredulous, then they glazed at each other. What was beyond belief in their eyes was that nobody else seemed to be aware of the remarkable scene right in front of them. Not the smart man in an elegant stovepipe hat, not the two gentlewomen chatting in a low voice, not even those two arm-in-arm newlyweds, even though they looked just like young Mr and Mrs.

It was drizzling. 18:30, it was starting to get dark; and despite the sunset was being hidden by the clouds up in the dimmed sky, Mrs C. thought there were no excuses for not being able to see what was going on. That was the truth: every other person, whether they were outwalking or simply strolling down the promenade, whether their mind was wandering or they looked light-hearted, whether they were old or young, none of them seemed to have even looked at it. They weren’t just ignoring it: somewhat, it was invisible for everyone, but Mr and Mrs.

The lady gently pulled her husband’s arm.
“Dear… What do you think we should do?”. The man frowned and mumbled.
They looked at each other right in the eyes.
Her eyes were at loose ends, pretty confused. She did feel she had to help in some way, she just didn’t know how.
His eyes were the eyes of a little kid about to dive off a cliff. Those were the eyes of a concerned man, who yet is about to do something he won’t easily forget.

He settled his top hat, lightly nodded to his wife and, after leaving her the umbrella, he reached it.

By the time he crossed the street and got closer, he saw how it was really not a statue. His face was turned downwards and, kneeled down, he kept his hands right on his thighs. He was naked, except for a piece of white cloth around his bottom and lower abdomen and a spine crown on his wavy and dark-haired head.

“Sir, excuse me. Are you okay?”, Mr C. asked him.
He waited a few seconds, which felt interminable, for an answer that eventually he did not get.
He turned around to give a glance to his wife, who had stood still and perplexed on the pavement across the street. She shook her head as to tell him she didn’t quite know what to do next; he decided to give it another try.

“I know you can hear me. You look cold, would you like a coat on?” Mr C. proposed him, as he mimed taking off his own coat.

Mr C. kindly stirred the man’s shoulder. Still no answer.

“Look… I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I don’t even know if you understand what I’m saying. Dear God, I do wonder what the matter is with you.”
The poor husband stood there, down next to him for a few next moments. He couldn’t even hear that dark-skinned man breath, but his gray eyes were a little open and facing the ground.

At last, Mr C. decided to leave a banknote right to his right and go back to his wife. “Did it say something?”
“He didn’t say a word.”

But what poor Mr C. did not see was the dark circles under that man’s reddish and tired eyes, his broken teeth and the little but deep holes he had in his upper arm.

Craving murdering oneself is excruciating. Pondering until the sun comes up, planning the right moment and place, crying while harming oneself. It’s a disease, a repugnant virus I’ve been ashamed of for as long as I can remember.

Weakness is the quickest and the most undemanding path. Showing to be strong, bulletproof, requires an imparalleled effort. I cannot give up, that’s my true ending.

Wanting to murder oneself is still murdering oneself. Of course, besides my several flaws, I’ve got plenty of good qualities and I’m talentous. I can feel the Revolution flowing within me, I’m aware of my value and this rarely comes off my mind. I’ve got boundless plans and I find amusement in shaping my future, just as if then I won’t change my mind or as if life will follow my instructions.

When I carved my body, when I saw bruises on my legs, when my tears ran down ’til my breasts, a part of me was to die.

I’ll never get over my grief, it’s a part of who I am.

I’m alone. I’m alone with myself and that’s horrific. I think of shocking thoughts, I imagine ridiculous pictures. They’re scandalous and I’m freezed and I think: have I really just given birth to this abomination?

My scream for help is quiet, it’s a monitored cry which I believe I can always sigh out.

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

Words might help when communicating, but music is in a whole new level.

It’s a torture. I can’t even drag on to the bathroom or to the kitchen to drink a little water, with one eye open and the other closed, that I know I won’t be able to just lay my wavy head on my two soft pillows, close my eyes and fall asleep again. I just physically won’t be able to. I’ll turn to the left side of my lonely warm bed, then to its right side; then my mind will tease me, resting for a couple lucky minutes, and eventually it’ll turn itself on. My mind is a switch I don’t have any power over.

The thing is that I’m not either completely woken up or sleepy, I stand in an eternal hellish limbo for at least the following two hours. So, at this point, I can’t delay his call any longer. Not anymore. I’d be quite cheeky and impolite, otherwise. Plus… what would be my other options? Staying still in my scrawny bed, looking up to the cieling? Carefully listening to the extremely loud clicking sound of my room clock?

Oh, no. I put on a sweater and I go barefoot downstairs, to my garden. As I’m living it, I get dream vibes all the time because everything around me is blurred and opaque.

Here he is. He is so handsomly beautiful without even trying, someone I’ve fallen for multiple times and whom I wouldn’t hesitate a single moment to take a step forward with, if he asked me to.

While nearly everything my eyes lay on is confused and chaotic, he’s a beacon in a black night. He truly can enlighten my late times; when I look at him, he’s well-defined and neat.

As he lightens up a cigarette, I go and sit next to him on a green hostile bench.

Dwindling, I rest my heavy ached head on his left shoulder, while he caresses the latter of mine. My knees are touching my breast and my feet are mild, just as the arm he’s touching.

He places his cigarette on my lips, I try to inspire as much as the taste of his breath stays within me. My hands are still in my sweater pockets, so he takes off that long blue cilinder from my mouth.

He kisses me. The smell of his smoke pervades my entire rib cage. As he pushes aside a lock of my hair behind my ear, I lean forward. I want more. I want that next step.

Just like every other night, I won’t get it. Within minutes, I fall asleep in his arms. I feel like a baby, while he strokes my rosy cheeks, my curved lips, my refined nose, my dark hair, with his hands. That feeling, that relaxing regenerative feeling of being loved and cared for, that’s my heaven. It almost fades away the worry I’ll get tomorrow morning, because I won’t remember any of this and still get the memory that something happened. Something had to.

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

In front of my little round bluish bathroom mirror, the dark circles under my eyes seem to be covered in the bluest veins. My eyes are a broke artist’s palette; a bit red, a bit orange, a bit brown. There’s a single small section of them which is yellow. It’s disgusting. Doing this makes me a snake.

I shake my head as if I want to scroll away the gross glance I’ve just given myself, I untie my hair from a ponytail. I quickly take off my knickers and a chemise I’ve been wearing for a few days, not really sure.

I check my wrists and ribs and groin, no open and infected cuts so far. I may not die this time, relieving. Abstinence makes me depressed.

My bathtub is now filled up with the coldest water. I know it because I’m leaving my left arm loose inside of it. Not on purpose, nor do I find it pleasing. It’s quicksand, even dark, filthy. I can’t see or feel my hand.

I won’t waste time, or my grip cracking-bones feelings will come back and haunt me, forcing my stay on that smelly matress over there, and right then I’ll be fucked. I’ll be in a sweat bath for hours, days even and every second passing, my pain will rise.
I take the syringe and put it on the mirror shelf, lay the magic dust on the spoon basin. Lighter turnt on, my hand shakes while I put its flame under the steel. My right one, that was inside the tub, is black. I actually see everything black every now and then. Soon everything will get its colour back.

I can feel it warming up more and even more and when it’s fluid enough to be absorbed, I take a medium-sized cotton ball and sponge it.

I can already feel. And it’s good, I haven’t been able to feel anything for days. Running through my veins, cutting pieces of my bones and making them shapeless and majestically cracked, all of my blood inside of my head first, inside of my legs then, two separate body parts from my torso.

This won’t be the last time. I didn’t even inject and it’s already making me experience this connection to my soul. Oh no, you can bet it won’t be the last time.

I take off the plastic cap from the needle of my syringe and imbibe the potion through that white candid, still, with bits of dirt, ball.

I took off my ponytail before. Where’s my elastic band? On the side of the tub, which is now overflowed by water. I lean slantwise and forward to stop the tap and I almost fall. I could’ve died, not sober though. I don’t deserve to die sober.
I roll all the way up that blue elastic band to my upper forearm, just a few inches up away from that greenish vein.

It’s time, I’ve wanted to do so, so bad. I almost forgot to push the air out of my syringe.

I clench a fist and, as I feel it coming and warming me up, it spreads out.

Better than any orgasms in the world. That warmth and strength which sew every cuts, repair those busted bones, lighten that darkening hand. It starts from my throat, like a soft punch and, as a long arm, it goes way down to my guts. I wouldn’t be able to talk neither if I wanted to.

I’m the queen of the world and nobody can fucking stop me now. I’ll take advantage of the power and energy I’m feeling now and get into the bathtub. I may fall asleep.

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

​The entrance door is open and I can clearly see the peach leaves the wind chaotically stirs. They’ve stopped now. But then they swing more and more and even more.

While they caress each other, they look alive.

Every now and then I can hear the deafening noise of any car. I can clearly hear it; on the other hand, my bed is just a few meters away from the street.

I close my eyes in order to solely focus on the words and the tune I’m listening to through my hearphones.

“And I know it’s hard when you’re falling down

And it’s a long way up when you hit the ground

Get up now, get up, get up now”

It doesn’t mirror my mood. It’s a way too cheerful rhythm and a way too optimistic song to make me avoid to feel alone in the desolation I feel.

The bed mattress I’m lying on is extremely downy. It feels like it wants to swallow me.

It’s just a feeling, a quenchless misery which twists my stomach, which tightens my bones, which dries my throat. My eyes are weary and their lids, they’re heavy. I’m always sleepy, but I never want to sleep.

Watching the leaves doing that bizarre dance of theirs with the air is sorely relaxing. They just dance, not pondering the reason behind so. And they dance majestically, with no esitations. They’re the wind’s companions only and, even though they all follow its direction, every one is unique, peculiar. Perhaps the wind chose them because of this.

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Poems save my soul and writing them lift the weight of it I have to carry everyday. They’re my touchstone, my benchmark, my compass. Having written almost 20 poems in less than 16 years of life probably doesn’t make me a poet, I’m too young and inexperienced. Maybe one day I will, but who knows… this competition is ruthless. Everybody wants to be a poet and thinks they actually are. So, that begs the question: what makes you a poet and, above all, what makes you better than another one?
I guess it depends on the readers. What can make someone feel something, isn’t sure to be making another person feel the same. People are so changeable and fickle, different.

Well, of course, you can base your criteria to judge who’s the best in this area by analyzing the form, the external appearance of their poems: but, big news for the ones who loves to write prose and their idea of poem isn’t stuck in the 14th century with Chaucer, poets stopped caring about how a poem is formally written since last century. You can literally say “The sun is shining and the sky is blue” and, if you give it a title and decide that’s a poem, it is. Isn’t that terrific?

Well, not really. At least, not in my opinion. I take the view that poems are made for those who are truly willing to understand them, not for those who need to learn them because their English teacher told them to. The world of poetry is a world apart and, call me selective, for the chosen few only. You don’t need Jesus from the Heavens to be told that you’re one of them, you just need to attend to it the majority of your time. It needs to be your passion, what makes you truly feel, what you live for and of, basically. I don’t think I’m being too exaggerated because that’s what I do on a regular basis.

Poetry is silent, something which involves your mind, your soul, your heart, and only eventually your fingers (to hold your pen). Poetry doesn’t need advertising. Poetry is innate, but needs to be understood and supported by whom believes in its power.

In conclusion… okay, write a few verses and fill your Instagram bio with terms such as poet , living for poetry, etcera… But don’t expect to be taken seriously.